The Bird
by vanhunks
Summary: Tom Paris visits the holodeck to see an old friend, hours before Voyager reaches Earth. Set at the end of Seasons 7. Sap alert.


The Bird

_**The Bird**_

_**by**_

_vanhunks_

**Note**: This was written in response to Jupiter Station's Narrative Challenge #302. I don't know if it complies to the conditions Syd set out, but the Jupiter Station's Message board has been active lately, and I was inspired again to offer another little vignette, a short PWP piece. 

  
**DISCLAIMER**: Paramount owns the characters. The beautiful bird is mine. 

**SUMMARY**: A man watches a woman.

**Rating**: G

**

THE BIRD 

Sometimes, of a morning, the lake lay in gleaming softness as tiny tendrils of water crept up the sand before dissipating in a sad goodbye as they seeped away. At the water's edge, just where the sand was still dry and welcome and where the lost eddies had earlier tried valiantly to stake another claim, the blue crane landed. It swooped from the sky so suddenly that the long grass quivered as the rush of air hit it. The crane's wings flapped once, twice, gracefully spreading out, then tucking back against its breast. The bluish-grey of its body contrasted with the white breast, soft down that eased away from their quills as the light breeze lifted them. 

The blue crane stood on long, thin legs: proud, imposing, aristocratic, cool. She moved, cautiously surveying her surroundings, ready for the slightest movement that would startle her into flight again. Then she stood still, her wings lifting, hovering. She looked straight at him. He smiled. 

He called her Queen. 

Of all the holodeck programmes he had created, this one chose him. It was not a question of choice. He had none. He admitted, albeit reluctantly, to allowing himself some lack of control when it came to this programme. Queen chose him. Sandrine's had been so easy, so uncomplicated, easy to adapt, make changes, add new parameters, even randomize characters' responses. Fair Haven had become…fair game… Sandrine, Ricky, so many others…the Gigolo… That first year had been the most inspiring, the most exciting, with prospects so encouraging that hope ignited and flared, burned as a constant flame in him. 

He had taken one look at her then, that first day, so long ago. Her hands were on her hips and he had known with certainty - only lately remembering his father's words - that Kathryn Janeway was going to walk with incredibly dainty feet- he always imagined them to be dainty - into his heart and set up camp there. His father had once said about Kathryn that she had the ability to stir up the emotions and evoke great passion in the man who would one day be fortunate to get a second look from her. Admiral Paris had spoken then in almost awed tones of how Agamemnon and Paris fell to the at once terrifying and sublime beauty of fair Helen… The consequences were tragic… 

Kathryn looked at him. 

Paris fell. 

He had used those second looks from her, collected and catalogued them, arranged them in order of importance and circumstance and intensity and quality into memory chambers where they converted into the energy that drove him to get through each day. 

Once, in Sandrine's - it had been only a few months old then and she, Kathryn, still struck by his creativity - he had sat at his table and Kathryn… He sighed. Even if she never wore such alluring and heady perfume, he had been aware of her presence even though he had not seen her enter. His neck hair bristled and the urge to get up and leave had been so strong that only her palm - sweet, small, delicate hand! - as it rested on the table when she moved into position to face him, kept him rooted to his seat. He knew he was trapped, the warmth that crept to his cheeks refusing to recede. Then, deep down, he felt something that would save him from that moment of embarrassment, from looking into her eyes and revealing himself to her. It was pride, the knowledge that she could dismiss him, dismiss what he felt as the rush of pubescent attraction. "Don't worry, it happens… even Paris fell," is what he imagined she'd say that day. And he thought, before that happened, before he turned to be all manner of a sick fool, he had to rescue himself. Save face, save reputation, save his manhood. He plucked out his old, trusted and sometimes revered, reviled, repulsed-by-all smirk and said: 

"Why, Captain, are you lonesome tonight?" 

He could have kicked himself then. Hard. No matter that the mechanics or physical impossibility of such an action seemed ludicrous, but the sentiment mattered. Did he imagine that she paled? The moment passed so quickly that even now, sitting here by the lake and watching the blue crane, he wondered about that day in Sandrine's. Kathryn had recovered instantly and replied sweetly: 

"I am alone, but not lonely, Paris." 

"That's a thought to be rejected…" he said, voice dipping to a husky drawl. 

"Tom…?" 

His chair scraped as he tried to get up and sagged back again. 

"Captain, I - " 

Too late. Her lips - red, red lips, delectable lips he wanted to touch, close his eyes and take in the image of cherries inviting to be plucked - pursed delicately. There was a sudden flash in her eyes. 

His face felt warm. He wanted to apologise. He rose to his feet and would have saluted, but any movement, any utterance of regret would have taken him deeper and deeper into that realm where it was impossible to correct wrongs, except…except feel a great, profound regret. He was breaching protocol, he was fraternising with a superior officer, he was telling his Captain how she felt, second-guessing her emotions, he was… damn! Before he knew what was happening, he watched her walk to the holodeck door, every step graceful, floating, proud… She had paused at the door, turned to glance at him again quickly, then vanished from sight. 

What happened? He wondered to this day whether he had hurt Kathryn Janeway, whether his words and tone had rebuffed her. Was that a flash of pain in her eyes? Was she really lonely, and masking her loneliness even then? Why was she there, when she knew he had been alone in Sandrine's? Could she have returned what he felt, then? 

Could she? Could she? 

He convinced himself that it was so. Told himself that she was hurt, that she could possibly have wanted him, and that his action - way too unsubtle to have been an invitation to sit down and join him for a drink,perhaps just…talk - had scared her off. She had been in those moments, he realised belatedly, just a woman who wanted to talk to a man. Else why had it become so difficult, so difficult beyond endurance to reach her again after that day? 

Why couldn't he reach her? 

Because after that she became the Captain, and stayed that way. 

Even - God help him for not being able to remember how it happened - after they were found together on that alien world, with offspring, and not remembering that they hadfused in a primal way, she had become distant, aloof. 

He had seen it in her eyes, seen the way her hands balled into fists at her sides. She felt…distaste? Was it the one opportunity he had of finally challenging her? Why didn't he? Why had he chosen _her_ that day after he evolved into a tongueless, miserable lizard-like amphibian to express such a fundamental element of life as procreation? There had been other females around. He chose her. Chose her as if some deep, deep instinct told him it was his final chance. 

And he didn't remember it. 

He had been embarrassed, she had been good about it, told him his choice of mating partner surprised her. He felt miserable then, miserable that he could see her withdrawing, the aloofness settling in her eyes again. The small hand that had moved to his shoulder wavered above him. He knew his eyes closed at the moment of anticipated impact, then he opened his eyes again. He didn't feel it, didn't give what he knew would be a sigh of great peace, because her hand had never been there. She was already lying on the other biobed. How had she moved there so swiftly, so silently? How had her quiet repose etched itself so indelibly in his mind? 

Once, he was on his way to Harry and he felt again the panic in him rise when she entered the turbolift. He had been nervous, knew that his hands were trembling and his old stalwart, the celebrated comeback of smirks deserted him when he most needed it. But Kathryn… She had been quiet too, and when she halted the turbolift to exit, he could feel her moving closer to him. Close enough that he could see into her eyes and imagine the deep pools of sorrow glowing darkly as the light above them in the lift penetrated into their depths. 

_Kiss me_, he begged her wordlessly. 

_Let me touch you_, he charged his lifeless fingers, only to feel the searing pain as hand moved to her arm, the intention, the desire, the throbbing yearning dying in its infancy when his hand fell back to his side, a lifeless appendage to his body. 

Lifeless. 

Kathryn's face - did she smirk? It was a vain hope that she smiled invitingly - moved closer to his. He saw the way her neck curved gracefully, imperiously, a queen…noted with distraction that there was the tiniest mole just peeking from the top edge of her turtle neck just below her right ear lobe. 

_She's going to kiss me_, the knowledge ripped through him, coursing in delicate curling waves of desire that rushed to the surface of his skin, penetrating as miniscule beads of perspiration. 

He closed his eyes, knowing that he would feel her in the next instant. He heard the turbolift doors swish close… 

He opened his eyes and felt the emptiness around him. 

He had no choice. 

A slight movement alerted him to the crane still standing imperiously a short distance away from him. The Queen's wings flapped, then the flapping slowed down as if she changed her mind. They rested close to her body again. 

"Will you come closer to me today?" he whispered, softly. 

The crane's long neck curved gracefully as she bowed her head. She seemed to say 'no' to him. He gave a deep sigh. It had been like this every day for the last seven weeks. He had no wish for Sandrine's, Neelix's resort, or Fair Haven. He created his crane, of rare beauty, aristocratic mien, still, distant, aloof, hardly ever closing the gap between them more than two steps. But he had come to know her, observed her closely every day, and knew every mood, every emotion in the way Queen walked, gently lifted her wings as if readying for flight and not flying, her imperious air as she cocked her head and turned away from him. Yet, in spite of all that, he had no idea, no idea at all how she would act or react in the next instant. 

He chose his Queen because here he could have control. He could manipulate any reaction from her, he could make his crane do anything, from flying in magnificent splendour silhouetted against the sun, or the moon, to the smallest step she took which would indicate a particular emotion. Yes, he could control her. Jesus. What control? As if the holodeck computer had randomised every few seconds, shorted out his expert codes and complex contortions of creativity, reading through his own touch, sensing from the heat of his own fingers what emotion he was experiencing, the programme confounded him, threw curve balls at him. Dammit! Sandrine behaved. Even that poor bastard Michael behaved. 

But Queen… Yet, if he thought about it, given that he allowed himself time forrationale and introspection, it wasn't such a bad idea. He thrived on the unknown, the unexpected, the thrilling edge of danger. From Queen he didn't know what to expect, and he liked it that way. Oh, yes, he knew her. Knew her…Didn't know her… 

He left it like that. It was perhaps a blessing, that Queen punished him every day by withdrawing, by coming tantalisingly close and moving away with painful ease. He wanted it, wanted the pain, wanted the rejection, tormented himself with unremitting pain coming here every day, looking at her, wanting her, needing her to acknowledge him. She taught him to keep his distance, he learned to accept the inevitable. 

The inevitable. 

"I guess you're not interested today, huh." 

Did it seem as if she nodded? 

He didn't hear the lapping of the gentle tendrils of water against the shore. He didn't hear other birds squawking in the distance as they raced away, he didn't hear the men in the fishing boats yell at each other, nor did he hear the waves… 

He watched as Queen spread her wings, fluttered them majestically and bent her spindly legs - low, low she curtsied, wings stretched and head bowed. Then she raised her head; in one swift movement she lifted off, cleaving the azure sky. She hovered a heart stopping moment, suspended in the air like a falcon, then sped off at great speed. He shielded his eyes with his hand and stared long at the sight of the blue crane flying off into the distance, to be swallowed finally by the late afternoon sun.

*

Tom Paris stepped from the holodeck and almost bumped into her. He skidded to a halt as her palm came up in order to stop him. 

"Captain!" he exclaimed, smiling brightly at her. 

"You're in the Alpha Quadrant, Tom, on your way to Earth, and you're still frequenting the holodeck?" she asked, matching his smile. 

Then the smiles dried up and were replaced by sombreness. Tom spoke first, breaking the uncomfortable silence: 

"I just came to say goodbye to someone, Captain." 

****

end 

NOTE: The Blue Crane is endemic to Southern Africa, and is the bird emblem of the Republic of South Africa. The Blue Crane is also on the Critical Endangered Species List. 

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